


The Bunker: Heaven is a Place On Earth

by SaltAndBurn (AlyssiaInWonderland)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Bittersweet Ending, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, Gen, POV Sam Winchester, i'm not really sure how to tag this i'm sorry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:10:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssiaInWonderland/pseuds/SaltAndBurn
Summary: Sam keeps remembering fragments of a horrible nightmare. But its Dean's birthday, and he's determined to see his brother happy for once in their lives.As the day progresses, he gets less and less sure of what is real and what is the dream.Angst, fluff, and more gratuitous angst. I wanted to stab myself through the heart with feels for this fic. So I did. Now you get to see it too!





	The Bunker: Heaven is a Place On Earth

_Sam screams out to Dean, but he’s too late._

_The witch vanishes as Dean crumples to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut._

_There’s no sound, just the horrible vision of Dean lying on the grass, pale, and cold to his desperate touch. Sam fumbles frantically at Dean’s wrist, presses his ear to his chest, but he can’t find a pulse._

_He doesn’t realise he’s called Castiel until he’s right there, crouching by him as he cradles Dean’s body to his chest. Their eyes meet, Sam begging wordlessly for Castiel to fix him, to mend the chasm left by Dean’s lifelessness. Sam’s crushed by the concern and sympathy in Castiel’s eyes._

_Castiel’s arm around his shoulder feels like it’s barely there, even when he’s tugging at him, trying to get him to move away from Dean’s body. He can’t, no matter how gently Castiel tries to take his hand and support him._

_He won’t give up on Dean._

_He won’t let go._

* * *

Sam pads softly through the corridors, feet insulated by thick fluffy socks. The bunker is many things, but consistently cosy in winter is not one of them – at least, not until they’ve fixed up a room and made sure to shut all the doors. Sometimes, being first up, first to face the freezing concrete floors, irritates him, but today it just makes him grin. A frission of excitement zings up his spine. He gets to be up before Dean, and he has big plans that rely on Dean staying asleep until much later.

It’s Dean’s birthday today.

He reaches the kitchen, clicking the door shut behind him as he flicks on the lights. The room should soon heat up with the warmth from the stove, but he turns on the radiant heaters and the fan anyway. They whir to life, loud to his ears, but he knows Dean will be deaf to them through sleep and distance. He reaches up to the top of the cabinets, where Dean can’t reach but he can, and takes down an overstuffed bag of supplies.

Flour, eggs, milk, vanilla extract, obscene amounts of chocolate chips, bacon and maple syrup. He sets coffee to brew and lines up the ingredients like soldiers in a parade, measuring them carefully according to the instructions he’s looked up on his phone.

So, cooking maybe isn’t his personal strong point. Dean’s always been the cook – a damn good one, even if he has a propensity for making heart-attack worthy dishes. Sam, on the other hand, clearly has inherited a different talent. One that does not belong in the kitchen. In his defence, people who say cooking is just chemistry are blatant liars, because he’s never failed a titration, but he’s failed almost every variant of easy food he can imagine. There’s a reason other than health that he likes to subsist on smoothies and salads.

He frowns, pressing his lips together in concentration as he mixes up the batter. It looks roughly right – it’s supposed to be fairly runny, and it seems to be runny.  There’s a lot less of it than he’d expect, but he can fix that after he tests out the first batch. He lights up the stove, puts a pan over the flame and pours out what he reasons is a good portion of the mixture. It spreads over the pan unevenly, and he has to pour in some more to fix up the gaps. It’s not setting, and he’s not sure how to heat the pan up faster other than turning the flames up higher.

To cover the pan and make a decent, round pancake, he’s used up over half the batter already. He turns around, grabs the flour, eggs and milk and pours them into the bowl, measuring it hastily. He doesn’t know how Dean makes this look so easy. The instructions are right there, and they make absolutely no sense at all, because this time around he’s added the same amount of ingredients and got substantially more pancake mix.

He shrugs. He’s ready for the next round when he spots the bacon sitting innocuously on the countertop behind him.

“Crap!” He gets out the butter, and sets the bacon on another ring. Hopefully it will be ready at around the right time. He’s just chucking the packaging in the garbage when he hears a voice, and he straightens up so suddenly that he hits his head on the counter.

“Hello, Sam.”

“God!” He shuffles forward and clutches the top of his head with one hand. “Cas, could you please not just appear behind me like that? You scared the crap out of me!”

“You are injured. I apologise, I simply wished to drop by. I believe it is customary to visit humans on their birthday?” Cas looks concerned, and earnest, and Sam can’t stay mad at him when he’s being so cautious. He seems like he’s testing out different ways to speak, like his question sits strangely in his mouth, and it’s oddly endearing. A little smoke is wreathed behind him, which is unusual for angel transport, but Sam takes it in his stride.

“Yeah. I’m making him pancakes. He’s not up yet, though, so you can hang here if you like?” Sam offers, gingerly prodding at the crown of his head and wincing at the soreness.

“Yes, thank you. I do not believe it would be wise to wake Dean early.” Cas nods, definitively, his eyes sparkling with warm amusement that Sam never fails to be amazed by. Cas seems so distant at times, but then there are moments like this, where he swears they’re each laughing together without even having to express the feeling aloud.

“You got that right.” Sam grins, and lets Cas reach out with two fingers to touch his forehead. The pain vanishes, and Cas smiles at him. “Thanks.” He adds, and looks away.

He’s still not sure how he feels about Cas. Of course, he’s family, but he’s not sure what else Cas means to him. Dean’s always claiming Cas as family, and he gets that, he really does, but something about Cas fundamentally unsettles him. He hates that his first thought it that it’s because he’s still on some level demonic, that the presence of angelic grace nettles him because of it.

He shakes his head to get rid of the thoughts, and finds himself smiling fondly as Cas moves over to the stove, pokes at one of the pans curiously.

“What is this item?” He asks, curiously.

“Pancakes.” Sam abruptly smells burning, hidden underneath the bacon’s strong scent. “It’s supposed to be pancakes!” He skids forwards, socks slipping, and stares at the pan crestfallen.

“This does not look like a pancake, Samuel.” Cas is still poking at it dubiously with a spatula, and Sam yanks it from Cas’ grip.

“It is too! It’s salvageable!” He starts to try and lever up the blackened batter, and it starts to crumble as he does.

“I can see it’s molecular structure, as I can with all things. It’s molecular structure more closely resembles charcoal than pancake.” Cas isn’t trying to offend him, but it stings about as much as it is hilarious.

“Show off.” He mutters, struggling not to giggle wildly like some giddy child. “Like you could do better.”

“Touché.” Cas concedes, and then the fire alarm goes off, having finally sensed the smoke in the air, and the sprinkler system in the room turns on. Cas doesn’t even flinch as the water hits his trenchcoat and drenches them both. Sam can’t hold in in any longer; he bursts into hysterical laughter, Cas watching on with a mix of bemusement and humour that just makes him laugh even harder.

“I can’t even-“ Sam begins, and then Dean’s bursting through the door to the kitchen, dressing gown flapping behind him, bare footed, boxers thankfully on, knife in one hand, staring around the room wildly.

“Sammy? Cas? What the hell’s going on?” Dean looks so completely horrified that Sam starts laughing again, and now he’s got Dean’s patented disbelieving look directed at him too, which helps precisely nothing.

“Sam made a pancake.” Cas says, his tone perfectly even, and Sam doubles over, because it’s too perfect. He’s almost crying actual tears as he watches Dean pick up the spatula and use the end to turn off the alarm, the sprinklers stuttering off again.

“What have I freaking told you about trying to cook, man?” Dean sounds tired and exasperated, but also amused, so Sam’s in the clear. “Is that bacon? Oh my God, Sammy, do you even know how lucky we are that the sprinklers didn’t get water in this?” Sam watches as he hastily turns off the stove and shoves the pans against the wall.

“Dude, I don’t get how you make cooking look so easy. I thought pancakes would be simple. Good for breakfast, you know?” Sam’s laughter as died down, though occasionally it wants to bubble up in small bursts, which he swallows with some effort.

“Yeah, well, it is easy. You’re just a culinary disaster zone.” Dean mutters, darkly, before he claps Sam on the back and drags out a chair. “Well, hop to the clean-up. Cas, please do not learn cooking from Sammy. Ever.” 

“I do not intend to.” Cas is smirking – which is rude, in Sam’s opinion – and then he pulls out a small package from his coat pocket and offers it to Dean. “Gifts are customary on one’s birthday.”

“Wait, that’s what this is about?” Dean looks surprised, which pinches at Sam’s heart more than he’d care to admit.

“Of course. Why else would I try and cook pancakes? And bacon? Though I guess technically I cooked up some charcoal.” Sam scrunches his face up in discontent, and Dean grins at him, something softening behind his eyes.

“Hey. It’s okay, Sammy. I don’t mind a little bit of burning in the morning. It’s good. A nice, bracing way to wake up. Isn’t charcoal meant to be healthy?” He’s mostly mocking, but it’s good natured enough that Sam can recognise the olive branch for what it is. 

“Sure, if you’re after something that’ll give you cancer instead of a heart attack.” Sam snarks, and Dean rolls his eyes, and Cas is still poised holding out the present. It’s rather damp in the kitchen, but it’s somehow pretty perfect anyway.

Dean takes the package from Cas, and waves it by his ear happily.

 “How about we abandon ship with some coffee and come back to this, like, way later?” Dean grabs the coffee jug and starts to retreat out of the kitchen. “Bring the mugs, Sammy!”

Sam watches as Dean cheerfully heads over to the room they’ve claimed as their living room.

“A little help, Cas?” Sam gestures to the mess. “This is at least partially your fault.”

Cas raises an eyebrow at the insinuation of guilt, but a second later the kitchen is restored to its normal, dry, state, so he’s not that annoyed by it.

Sam grabs three mugs, because he always brings one for Cas even if he can’t really enjoy coffee as an angel, and heads out the door. When he looks back, he catches Cas staring at him with an odd expression. He looks almost sad, until he clicks his fingers to snap him out of it.

“Hey, Cas! You coming?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”

* * *

_The paper the spell is written on is unsettlingly normal. It’s ripped and shabby at the edges, like it’s been torn from a notebook, and it’s even lined. It’s almost insultingly juvenile._

_The spell’s in Latin, of course._

_Finem Animum._

_He hates the inevitable, automatic translation running through his head._

_Soul’s End._

_It’s written in purple biro._

* * *

Cas has gone, and Dean’s playing happily with his new and incredibly shiny butterfly knife, when Charlie comes bursting in through the bunker doors.

“What’s up, bitches?” She grins, vibrant and sweet, and Dean waves at her cheerfully.

“Getting wiser, annoying Sammy, you know the drill.” Dean winks at Charlie, and she snorts loudly.

“Older, not necessarily wiser.” Charlie quips brightly, and dumps her bag on the table as she steps up and envelops Sam in a hug. “Hey, Sam.”

“It’s good to see you, Charlie.” Sam doesn’t bother hiding the affection in his tone. Charlie’s always been a little more Dean’s friend, of course. Doesn’t mean she isn’t still practically the little sister he never got to have. “I hope you’re doing okay.” 

“Aren’t I always?” Charlie squeezes him tighter for a second before letting him go. “It’s good to see you, too.” She steps back, takes in his slightly bedraggled appearance. “Are you doing okay? You seem…can I smell smoke?” 

“Uh, well…” Sam waits for Dean to butt in and explain, but when he looks over, Dean is distracted by the pile of DVDs spilling out of Charlie’s bag. “I made pancakes.” He admits.

“Oh no, not cooking again?” Charlie looks like she’s seconds from laughing at him, and he doesn’t really blame her.

“He didn’t make pancakes,” Dean says, finally looking up. “He made charcoal.”

“Hey! I didn’t burn the coffee!” Sam protests, and Dean grins, the expression crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, so you know how it’s my birthday…” Dean brandishes one of the DVDs, and Sam blinks at it.

“Star Trek?” He shrugs, deliberately making himself seem more ignorant than he actually is, just to drive Dean a little crazy. “Isn’t that, like, really old?”

“Oh my God, Sam!” Charlie and Dean say, simultaneously, and launch into a passionate explanation of why Star Trek is amazing, and that there are in fact brand new movies. And a minor excursion into why Uhura is extremely hot, because apparently Charlie and Dean have similar taste in women.

Sam settles back to watch the involvement and excitement on their faces, and then the movie. He’d feel bad for pretending, for teasing them, but they seem to enjoy it. Charlie keeps stealing glances at him through the movie, as if she’s trying to keep tabs on his reaction to it, which is kind of adorable, even if he’s got to concentrate to make sure it’s not obvious he’s already seen it.

By the time the movie is over, Dean’s fallen asleep on the sofa and Charlie looks like she’s fit to join him.

“You could stay over; you know that right?” Sam offers, as he walks her to the door.

“I know, and thank you. But I have to get going. You know how it is, right? Quests to go on, maidens to save, Moondor to rule!” Charlie hugs him again, and he has to bend down a bit so he doesn’t lift her up off the ground.

When he lets go, she looks very small and fragile compared to him. Alone in the bunker door.

“Are you sure, Charlie?” He asks, compulsively. He hates to see her seem so tired and vulnerable.

“See you next time, Sam.” She smiles, and gives him a tiny wave before heading to her motorbike.

He watches her leave, and thinks maybe he’ll ask Castiel to check in on her later. She doesn’t seem okay to him.

* * *

 

_He keeps expecting to hear Asia’s ‘Heat of the Moment’ playing on the radio._

_There’s an intolerable cycle of dreading the song, relief that it’s not what greets him, and then the gut punching recollection that this time, it’s not because of Loki-Gabriel that Dean’s gone._

_Eventually he barely sleeps long enough to have the time to anticipate the chords embedded in his psyche._

_Castiel visits him sometimes, and each time he’s gentle and understanding, and Sam would almost hate him for it if he didn’t know Castiel is hurting too._

_Castiel seems worried about him, that he’s burning himself up, but he can’t sleep, and he survived those months after the mystery spot and thousands of Dean’s deaths, so he can handle a little more obsession and a little more research. It’s not demon blood, he’s not going dark side, so what does it matter?_

_His hands barely even shake from the exhaustion._  

* * *

Sam finds Crowley pouring out three shot glasses of expensive whiskey in the kitchen.

“Cr- what the hell?” Sam grabs the nearest object, which turns out to be the frying pan he made the pancakes with earlier.

“Evening to you too. Put that thing down; what are you going to do, cook me to death?” Crowley smirks at him infuriatingly. Sam puts down the pan anyway.

“What are you doing?” Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Pouring out some very high quality whiskey that’s undoubtedly going to be utterly wasted on you and your brother’s plebeian palettes.” Crowley sets down the bottle and caps it elegantly.

“Well, I can see that. I more meant to ask _why_.” Sam blinks at Crowley as he slides a shot glass across the table towards him. He wonders for a moment if it’s poisoned, but that seems like far more effort than it’s worth. Besides, he’s not even sure how Crowley got into the bunker.

“Thought I’d keep us on good terms, Moose. Soon it’ll be ‘the world’s in trouble, must be Tuesday’ and I’ll get the dirty work as usual. Nothing wrong with a little pre-emptive bribery.” Crowley picks up one of the remaining glasses, and swirls the amber liquid thoughtfully. 

“Right.” Sam eyes him sceptically.  
  
“Honestly, you never bloody trust me, do you? Every time, and not a single thank you! Would it really kill you?” Crowley is glaring at him now, though it’s somewhat mitigated by the fact he’s still holding the whiskey delicately; clearly he’s loathe to waste a drop of the good stuff.

“You’re a demon, Crowley. What do you want? To sit here discussing Hell’s performance stats over a shot glass of Dean’s favourite whiskey?” Sam can’t resist the chance to taunt Crowley; they both know this is Dean’s whiskey, not Crowley’s, even if he’s acting all precious about the damn drink.  
  
“Don’t mind if I do, Samantha.” Crowley leans back against the counter and sighs contentedly, a grin sprawling lazily across his features. 

“That wasn’t really an-“ Sam beings, and presses his lips together angrily when Crowley interrupts.  
  
“I know, don’t get your feathers all ruffled. I’ll bugger off.” Crowley levers himself up from leaning on the countertop, and holds up the glass. “After we make a toast.”

“A toast?” Sam feels utterly perplexed, but he’s just seen Crowley pour his drink from the same bottle as his was, and besides that they seem to have an uneasy truce these days. “Sure, why not.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.” Crowley raises the glass, his gaze intense, capturing Sam’s with next to no effort. “To absent friends.” Between his rich voice and his easy poise, Sam kind of totally gets how someone like Crowley could work his way up to King of Hell. There’s this strange kind of gravitas to him; he’s got presence in spades, and it’s almost automatic to follow his lead and complete the toast.  
  
“To absent friends.” Sam echoes, and watches as Crowley downs the drink. It’s burning through his own throat, and it’s deliciously real, grounding. Crowley licks his lips, and Sam can’t help but fixate on that detail.

“You know,” Crowley says, as he sets the glass down. “I like to think we bonded. I’ve had your blood in me, after all, Moose.” Crowley’s tilting his head to the side, his chin jutted a little, like he always seems to when he’s trying for an emotional play.  
  
“Are you done?” Sam hates how quickly Crowley can make him forget that he’s a demon.  
  
“I’m not getting sentimental about it, if that’s what you’re worried about. Don’t get me wrong, I still want it. One ex-blood junkie to another, the craving never really goes away, does it?” Crowley’s speaking strangely softly now, his posture sinking into something almost uncertain. Almost human, like he had almost been for Sam once before.

“No. No, it doesn’t.” He puts down the glass and clenches his fists at his sides, because he’s not sure if he wants to punch Crowley or not. His voice is hoarse from more than just alcohol, but he won’t ever admit that out loud.  
  
“Still, we soldier on. Two men, paths mirrored, crossed by stars…” Crowley seems almost to be rambling at this point. It’s unusual, and disconcerting enough that it makes Sam irritable.

“Cut the crap, Crowley. I’m not your freaking Juliet.” Sam snaps, because he’s feeling destabilised by the way Crowley’s acting. It’s too close to affection for him to be remotely comfortable.  
  
“No, my Juliet comes to heel.” Crowley has the audacity to actually wink at him.  
  
“Seriously? You date?” Sam’s equal parts horrified and amused by the idea.

“She’s a hellhound, Winchester. Honestly, I thought you were the brains of the pair. Speaking of, where’s your brother got to?” Crowley shakes himself from whatever mood had overcome him, and he’s now back to being alert and poised.

“Fell asleep watching Star Trek with Charlie.” Sam still wonders about that. Why Crowley still acts like he cares, why he remembers shit like Dean’s birthday and his favourite whiskey. Like Sam’s hell-scape of Dean being a demon was practically an affair for Crowley.

“Seems suitably moronic. Make sure he gets some of the whiskey. Don’t want him to miss out.” Something flickers behind Crowley’s expression, but Sam isn’t well versed enough in his moods to understand it.

“I still don’t like you.” He reasserts his position, in case it wasn’t clear to Crowley. Though it’s not even clear to himself, not anymore.

“Shame. I thought we had a real connection; I’m hurt.” Crowley doesn’t actually seem the least bit offended.

“Quick, call 911.” Sam finds, to his distant horror, that he’s almost enjoying the banter.

“Easy, tiger. Someone’s getting tired of pacing the cage, I see?” Crowley’s staring at him again, pinning Sam with his gaze in a way that feels like he’s being tested.

“What?” Sam wishes the demon blood in him gave him a free pass to understanding demons, he really does.

“Nothing.” Crowley’s gaze flicks away, and then he squares his shoulders, hands tucking into his pockets. “See you around, Moose.”

Crowley vanishes, leaving one perfectly full shot glass for Dean. Sam is left staring at the empty space in the kitchen.

“Huh.” 

* * *

 

_When all’s said and done, he just wants to be able to rest._

_He’s done with the pain, and the fighting, and the constant litany of ‘almost there’ and ‘maybe next time’._

_All he has to do is think it, and Castiel will come for him. Castiel, with his sad, empathetic eyes Dean would say he’s learned from Sam. Castiel with all his angel strength and him with evil flowing latent in his veins. And still, between them, they are powerless against the one thing that is breaking them._

_His rough fingertips are lovingly gentle on his forehead._

* * *

 Dean’s still asleep on the sofa. In the dim, blue-tinted light from the movie-screen menu, he looks painfully young.

By contrast, Sam feels so very, very old.

The room’s distorting at the edges, starting to fall apart, and he swallows down the jagged lump in his throat as he runs through his day.

Crowley, toasting absent friends.

Charlie, her hugs just a little too tight.

Castiel, so careful with him.

“This isn’t real, is it, Dean?” He whispers.

Dean’s sleeping form is the last thing to disintegrate into the bland whiteness that flares across his vision.

Cas stands in front of him, vividly colourful in the surrounding blankness. There are bars behind him.

“Sam.” He’s standing straight, but Sam can see the tiredness pervading his entire aura.

“What happened, Cas?” He’s crying, but he thinks he’s entitled, given he’s pretty sure he’s in some kind of angel-made isolation ward.

“Dean was hit by a spell, while you were on a hunt. Do you remember?” Cas asks, and Sam almost reels back physically at the fragments of memory.

“Finem Animum.” He says, his skin crawling with dread.

“The spell fragmented Dean’s soul. There was nothing to be done.”

“There has to be a way!” Sam bursts out, even as he remembers the nights and days of hope steadily bleeding from his psyche until he felt like maybe he’d been fragmented by the spell too.

“You were burning up, Samuel. And one day, you called me. So I came for you.” Cas explains it all so gently, and the memories tug at Sam’s mind until he yields to the kindness. He takes a stumbling step forwards, and Castiel’s arms wrap around him. The hug is awkward, but no less real or comforting for it.

“Why here? Why this? It doesn’t seem like how I remember it.” Sam doesn’t want to let go of Castiel’s warmth, and the angel graciously lets him cling.

“You and Dean shared a heaven. When his soul fragmented, so did your joint room.” Cas carefully pries Sam’s arms from around him so he can meet his eyes. “This is your own heaven, sustained by myself, mostly. Crowley comes by sometimes, when my grace needs to be recharged.” 

“So – so my heaven is the Bunker? On Dean’s birthday? But that day didn’t even happen.”

“No, Sam.” Cas takes his hand. “Your heaven is Dean finally finding his peace, seeing those you love live their lives and touch lives with your own.” Cas’ eyes are shining with what Sam thinks, with wonder, might be tears. “Your heaven speaks nothing of yourself. Only those you love. And with something so humble – where is the harm in letting you have your fantasy?”

There’s a whole current of hidden meaning under it, and Sam feels utterly overwhelmed by Cas’ fierce love and care.

“But why – why should I get this when-“ Sam starts to ask, and is startled when Cas shakes him, physically.

“Because, Samuel Winchester, you are a good man. You deserve your heaven. And I and the others you love are happy to be selfish enough to join you in it when we can.” 

Sam can almost feel Cas’ wings flaring out behind him as he speaks. He’s enveloped in everything that Castiel is, and he can’t even begin to express or process what he’s feeling. He’s so deeply known, here. Castiel sees his soul and finds him good.

He looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes. He thinks he recognises the grief there, behind the compassion and the fire. So he does the only thing he can.

“Put me back, Cas.” Sam closes his eyes and waits for the touch to his forehead to send him spiralling back to the bunker, to his brightest, never-had day. “Thank you.”

He feels Cas move closer to him, bend his head down, and he feels small somehow, even though Cas’ vessel is shorter than him.

“Thank you, Samuel.” He hears Cas whisper softly, and there’s the brush of lips on his forehead, and then he’s enveloped in pure, all-consuming white. 

* * *

 

_Sam pads softly through the corridors, feet insulated by thick fluffy socks. The bunker is many things, but consistently cosy in winter is not one of them – at least, not until they’ve fixed up a room and made sure to shut all the doors. Sometimes, being first up, first to face the freezing concrete floors, irritates him, but today it just makes him grin. A frission of excitement zings up his spine. He gets to be up before Dean, and he has big plans that rely on Dean staying asleep until much later._

_It’s Dean’s birthday today._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I'm kind of lost on how to tag this etc. The idea just sort of happened and wouldn't let go until I wrote it. I'm SO SORRY FOR ALL THE ANGST!
> 
> As ever, I live for your comments and kudos, it feeds my dark soul! <3


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